Chapter 21 The Devil in the Details #2
So, I offered the only other truth I had—the one I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
“Let’s get real, Laney.” I sounded sharper than I had intended. “I’m a piece of shit.”
“Ronan—”
“No, let me finish,” I went on. “You want to know if I usually drink like this? The answer is no—I usually drink a whole lot more, on top of a bunch of other bad habits that have to do with drugs, women, gambling, fighting, maybe even the occasional mur—”
I cut myself off as the face of Billy Richard rose in my mind’s eye. What the fuck? Since when did that start happening?
“Ronan,” Laney tried again. “You don’t have to—”
“I’ve done things you can’t even imagine,” I rattled on. “Dante would have had to create a tenth circle of hell just for me. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
She was starting to look impatient. “No, but—”
“But then I saw you in the middle of that cesspool of a city, a live flame of perfection in that dank, dark club, and I saw my absolution.” I grabbed her hands and squeezed, urging her to understand.
“I look at you, and I see my last fucking chance, Ari. So take the fucking money, all right? Because I’m not going to make it easy for you.
I’ve never made anything easy a day in my life.
But the moment I saw you, I knew I wanted to try.
I wanted to be a better person. You make me want to be a better person. ”
I watched her for a long time, holding onto her hands like they were life preservers in the middle of a storm.
She was that for me, I realized. I had started that speech intending to scare her a little, let her know, in one way or another, that we weren’t going to last forever, in part because I was going to fuck it up no matter what.
But by the end, I’d sold her my own potential redemption. And maybe sold it to myself, too.
Talk about snake oil.
Right?
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. Calm. “I’m not your savior, Ronan.”
I exhaled with relief. At least she wasn’t running.
“No,” I said just as quietly. “But you could be my salvation just the same.”
Laney looked down at the contract in her hands, then back at me. Then down again. I could see her thinking, weighing, deciding.
“Please, Ari.” I shook her hands lightly. “Sign it. I just need to know that no matter what I might do later, you’ll be taken care in the end. The money, it’s nothing to me. But I know it will do something for you, so just take it. Please.”
She chewed on her lip for a few moments. Then a cute divot appeared between her brows as she took back her hands and reached for the contract. “Do you have a pen?”
I pulled one out of my jacket pocket and handed it to her. “What are you doing?”
“Editing.” She flipped a few pages in and drew a thick line through the first ten million dollar payment.
“Laney—”
“If I’m staying here,” she said as she continued to scratch out large sections of the agreement, “I’m doing it because I want to, not because you’re paying me to. I don’t need an obscene amount of money to tolerate you or your family, Ronan.”
“To be fair, you haven’t met them yet.”
She gave me that look again, then crossed out the final payment with a flourish before handing the document back to me. “This is the only way I’m doing this. Take it or leave it.”
The entire document was bleeding red.
I scowled. “One moment. I propose a counteroffer.”
I took the pen back and started writing new numbers based on what I thought might be closer to her reality. There were other ways to get Laney Fisher the life and luxury she deserved, but for now, I could at least make sure she got the things I knew she really needed.
Money for school.
The cost of her healthcare.
A settlement that would take care of her mother’s legacy.
Not enough to make her rich. But possibly enough to make her happy once I inevitably fucked this up.
“That’s the only way I’m signing it, too, Ari.” I pushed the document back to her. “You take it or leave it.”
Don’t leave. Don’t you dare fucking leave.
She flipped through the contract, now and then glancing at me while I watched. Then she sat down to write down one more thing.
Addendum B: Mutual Care and Wellbeing
Husband agrees to:
(a) Substance limits: No recreational drugs. Max 2 drinks per day. Talk to me first if you need to exceed this.
(b) Violence restrictions: No fights unless in self-defense. No reckless behavior. No “handling problems” in ways that could hurt you.
(c) Emotional sabotage prohibitions: No pushing me away when things get difficult. No deflecting serious talks with jokes-as-shield. No self-fulfilling prophecy of assuming I’ll leave. Talk to me first if you feel the impulse to sabotage.
Note: Wife is not therapist. Wife is partner. But partners tell each other when they’re drowning before going under.
I read through the addendum twice before looking up at her. Christ. Two drinks per day? I’d already blasted through more than twice that in the last hour. “If you think I can do this, you don’t know me very well.”
She tipped her head. “If you’re an addict, that’s one thing. But I think you’re just alone.”
“Both things can be true.”
“But are they?”
I chewed on my lower lip for a long moment. It would be so easy to let her believe the worst about me.
But I found I couldn’t. Not quite.
“No,” I said truthfully and bent to sign the document. “Done.”
She took the pen from me with the cutest smirk I’d ever seen and signed with a flourish.
“Me too.” Then she stood up. “I’m going to powder my nose, and then we can go.
In the meantime…” She glanced down at the papers.
“You might want to read through your addendum. I suspect you’ll find it illuminating. ”
She got up and sauntered out of the room, conscious, had to be, of the fact that I couldn’t stop staring at her ass in that dress. My assistant deserved a raise for finding it.
When she was gone, I turned to the top of the survey Liam had included.
That asshole had included an encyclopedia of kink.
“Liam, you’re going to get your ass beat for this,” I muttered as I started reading through the checklist. “Wax play. Knife play, for fuck’s sake? Laney probably thinks she married a deviant.”
Or maybe she didn’t. Because as I scanned back over the list, I couldn’t help but notice that there were a fair amount of Yes boxes checked, a whole lot of Maybes, and only one… two… nope, just three Nos. Out of more than fifty.
And then had included several more pages of written answers to the places asking for specific fantasies or other thoughts.
And I’d already thought I was the luckiest man alive. Holy fucking shit.
“Ronan?”
I looked up to find Laney had returned and was watching me by the door. She was holding a small clutch, obviously ready to go.
I stood. “You little vixen. You tell me to read that and now we have to go? Fuck the party. I want to explore fantasy number four.”
She smiled, a slow, wily expression that nearly had me shoving her up against the wall, dress bunched to her waist, while I made good on orgasm number one for the week. She had checked yes for wall sex and had drawn a star next to it for good measure…
“I just wanted you to know I’m not the savior you think I am, Ronan.” She turned to the door and opened it as she spoke over her shoulder. “Maybe I can be a little bad, too.”